chapter 2

My phone rang — Joshua's mother, Mrs. Evelyn Harvey. The moment I saw her name flash on the screen, a chill settled in my stomach.

I pressed "speaker," and her voice burst into the room, sharp and cutting, every word dipped in venom.

"Natasha! Have you lost your mind? The wedding's tomorrow, and you actually called the police to report Carley! Do you realize what you've done? You'll ruin that poor girl — and Joshua's reputation right along with hers!" Her voice cracked with rage, "You're nothing but bad luck. You haven't even married into our family yet, and already you're tearing it apart!"

I stared at the phone with a blank expression, then slowly turned my gaze toward Joshua.

He looked cornered, awkward, his lips parting soundlessly as if he could somehow soften the blow. His eyes met mine — pleading, almost apologetic. "Mom, please stop…" he said finally, voice trembling.

"Why shouldn't I?" she snapped, "Joshua, I'm telling you, if you let Carley suffer because of this woman, don't even bother calling me your mother!"

Before she could say another word, Joshua hung up. The silence that followed was deafening — thick enough to choke on.

He rubbed a hand through his hair, not daring to meet my eyes. "My mom… she's just like that," he said after a moment, trying to sound gentle, but there was a dryness, a thin crack in his voice that gave him away, "Don't take it to heart."

I watched him, exhausted beyond anger, feeling the last pieces of something inside me fall quietly apart. "Joshua," I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper, "let's call off the wedding."

His head snapped up. He stared at me, stunned, as though I'd just spoken another language. "What did you say?" His tone was panicked, pleading. "Natasha, don't do this. I know you're upset — but after the wedding, I'll make it up to you. I promise, I'll—"

"I'm not making a scene," I interrupted, my tone even, final. "I said, the wedding's off. We're done."

I lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, then pulled the blanket over my head and let the quiet swallow me whole.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there — speechless, broken open. Then came the sound of a chair scraping harshly against the floor, the hollow slam of the door, and he was gone.

Peace at last.

When I finally moved again, I reached for my phone, my hands shaking only slightly as I opened the airline app. With my left hand — the uninjured one — I booked a flight to Novara, three hours from now.

The wedding invitation said the ceremony would begin at nine. My plane would take off at nine o'clock sharp.

Joshua, I hope you and your little apprentice have a bright future. From now on, we owe each other nothing.

When the plane landed in Auravale, the early morning light spilled across the mountains like silver fire.

I turned off my phone, my old number — my old life — gone with one tap. The air was crisp, the kind that stung your lungs but made you feel alive.

I checked into a small hotel near the lake, the kind of place that smelled faintly of pine and clean linen.

The wound on my arm still throbbed now and then, a quiet ache that reminded me not to look back.

Days blurred into one another. I spent a month in Auravale, driving aimlessly along the curves of Lake Solara or losing myself in quiet cafés that smelled of espresso and rain.

I didn't mean to think about Joshua, but his shadow was everywhere — in the way the lake caught the light, in the hotel lobby's soft jazz music, in the taste of wine we once shared.

We had been here together once. He'd said that when we grew old, we'd buy a house by the lake, wake with the sunrise, and watch it sink behind the mountains every evening. Looking back now, what a cruel joke that promise had been.

After a month, the cut on my arm had finally scabbed over, leaving a raised scar — ugly, yes, but honest. I left Auravale and moved north to Havenreach. There, I found a small house with a yard — nothing grand, but mine. For the first time in years, I started thinking about what I wanted.

I'd majored in ceramics once, long ago, but gave it up for Joshua's world of fabric and design.

Now, I decided to return to clay, to something that felt real beneath my hands.

I built a small kiln in the backyard and started from scratch, just me and the spinning wheel.

Nine times out of ten, the pieces collapsed, but with every failed attempt, something inside me began to mend. When my hands were deep in the cool, wet clay, the noise in my head faded. The pain, the memories, even the bitterness — all of it spun away, little by little.

Time, I learned, really does have a way of softening even the sharpest edges.

Two years passed before I realized how much had changed. My studio, Remoria Studio, had grown into something real, known by name in the local art circles.

My "Starry Sky" dinnerware collection caught the attention of a Michelin three-star restaurant, and they offered me a long-term contract.

My shelves filled with finished pieces — bowls, plates, cups — each one a quiet victory, each one proof that I had survived him.

Life was peaceful now, steady and full, and sometimes, on calm evenings, I could almost believe that Joshua Harvey had been just a bad dream.

Until the day someone I never expected showed up at my studio door.